Platonic Love
by Kay ti
Summary: A story about Haruhi, Tamaki and another man in their marriage. Lust, desire, dirty money, adultery- what matters when the husband is dying and you are rendezvous-ing somewhere else?
1. Chapter 1

**Platonic Love **

**Chapter 1**

_**Underneath this skin  
Is a heart that's bleeding  
Underneath that heart  
I'm waiting, I'm praying  
Can You really feel what I'm feeling?  
'Cause this world don't ask  
It takes...it's stealing**_

The tyres of scream an estranged mourn on the platform as the Royce Roll Phantom swivels up. The door slams and the steady beat of shoes against polished marble follows its master up the stairs. Black Prada leather shoes, size ten. You know his shoes size, the contents of the entire wardrobe- from patterned Hawaiian shirts bought on a mad whirlwind impulse to cufflinks shining like knight's amour, his favourites and his sleeping habits- which are most peculiar. Your husband does not snore, nor does he sleep with his mouth wide open. He is too perfect. In the death of the night, you watch him sleep. It is a personal luxury. One day, soon, when fate decides he will never lay by your side again, the pensive joy of security will waver like static, fizz like froth away and become nothingness. A stabbing emptiness haunts your heart like a diseased ghost and chases your soul down lines of bleak cannels. You know that feeling. That awful feeling that gets caught in your throat and nothing will unstop that block. The intent climax is almost ricocheting, numbing senses and clawing at the locket in your heart several a times.

When your husband sleeps he is a canvas of frozen in-motion artwork. The mop of golden hair, now dyed sliver by the moonlight is tousled to a side. His half-curl lips are slightly parted and he breathes as the ripples on his bony chest resembled rising and receding tides. A sleeping man is most alluring.

Sometime you wake up from a bad dream, clutching the silk sheets you both share tightly. The web of illusions spins in your head; in your dream you see a land full of craters and not a sign of life in sight. Withered mulberry trees cross your path and adolescent doers lay at your feet- their legs curled up to the downcast sky like that of a spider's. Austerity, devastation and retribution. It is a bad omen, moans the superstitious side of you. The whole issue is not in full agreement with that conclusion. You try to dismiss thoughts of icy death but your head is shouting; _The grim reaper is coming! The grim reaper is coming!_

_Don't, please…_ You whisper, even though you are not sure you prefer it coming uninvited. A ball of uneasy frenzy clenches insides. It floats up, as light as a gust if smoke and before escaping it pops into a shower of heavy fragments, sinking into your flesh and tormenting your heart. This feeling haunts you every day, every hour, every minute. Guilt.

_Haruhi, are you okay?_ Your husband sits up and rubs his eyes. A glimmer of tear purrs down your oval face when your eyes meet his. They are mirrors- mirrors that reflect the fact; time is running out. _Did you have a bad dream?_

The previous feeling is suppressed by newfound relief. He spoke! He may live to see the sakura bloom tomorrow. Each day is a challenge. Each night is a game. Dusk falls and it will be an everlasting night. If your husband stirs in his sleep, you know you've won. The moon can wax and wane in vain, but you understand he is still with you.

Supposedly, the worst feeling is anxiety. You loathe worrying; every time the fear creeps in, your throat constricts and taste buds go awry. During mealtimes all you can consume is air. In whatever you do, concentration is absent. The sour taste left in your mouth keeps you from making a proper conversation. Your grandmother asks you how the weather is and you reply abalone is great, puzzled why she enquired about food.

_Yes, Tamaki._ You tell him and your glaze drifts away. You cannot bear to look at him. His cheekbones are hollow and features seem sunken although anyone can see that he was once handsome. Hurt plagues you daily; feeding on your soul like a loan shark demanding for payment. He resembles the withered mulberry tree in the dreaded dream. Pitiful and brimming with sorrow.

_Our bed is facing north, the way dead bodies are laid. The feng shui is not good._ You say this excuse each time he asks the question. This is a routine, performed every night. Soon, he slips an arm around your waist and pulls you back to bed. It feels familiar, of course. The other man you share bed activities with does that as well. Only he wraps both arms around you and kisses the nape of your neck.

_Haruhi…_ Your husband says, before he nods off to dreamland _even if you lie to me, I believe what you say._

It is your fault. You see him as a blue chip, wanting him merely for selfish desires. You marry this man because the other wouldn't. _Soon,_ the other man replies, a brow wrinkled in annoyance and you cease questioning.

_**When I am tempted  
To crawl back and hide my face  
Will You wrap me up  
With love, truth and grace  
How'd I become the mess that I have made?  
I'm afraid to look You in the eye  
Because of my shame**_

_My freedom – by Krystal Meyers_


	2. Chapter 2

**Platonic Love**

Chapter 2

Crashing sounds of ming vases adorned with court ladies being knocked down startles you. A little. You are used to it. Your husband is getting one of his attacks. They are coming more often than usual. Now, thrice a day instead. His heart is too weak for the masculinity of him. Sometimes, the little beats speed up as if he has run a marathon, sometimes the beats diffuse into flaccid thuds. However you don't remove yourself from your comfortable position at the edge of the bed. Cluster of jerky voices- some shouting instructions, some gasping, reach you. In this predicament you still remain perched and composed. There are two options- to attend to your husband or stay still. You choose the second one. You don't wish for this incident to affect your mood. The other man who whispers sweet nothing in your ears has arrived in Tokyo- you haven't seen him in a whole month. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

The ski trip from many years ago. It pops in unexpectedly. The slightness of the other man's confession remains in your head even he is miles away. But not today- he is back in Japan. If you were at a campfire you would do a Kimbaya dance, making three rounds around the fire.

You enter the room stricken by grief, and see your mother-in-law sobbing for the umpteenth time. Her shoulder heaves. Up and down. Pause for a nanosecond. Down and up. Bobbing like waves- the Tsunami you wish will arrive promptly with the Suou's money beckoning like hefty bait, wash this grieve away.

_I have to go home for a while, my father's gravely ill._ You find yourself saying, in a mock tense manner. She gives a nod of approval, eyes rounded and misty and you almost spring out immediately.

The chauffeur offers to take you, but you reject graciously. Far too risky. So you hop onto the waiting cab. Fidget. Lock and unlock your hands.

Buildings tower over the small vehicles populating the roads and hug the crossroads of street path as you peer out of the misted windows. You note that the rarely seen stars are exceptionally bright. Twinkling, winking at those who bothered to take a fraction of a second off their hasty schedule and pursing their ludicrous glitter all over the city. Like stardust. Slivery diamond sheen. Good omen. Everything's going to turn out nicely.

You alight at a hotel. Press several five thousand yen notes into the driver's palms giddily after you both exchange polite closes and he wishes you a nice time. Stilettos gliding across a tessellation of smooth marble. Left, right. Left, right. Rapid lady-like steps- just like how Granny Suou taught you years ago. You get into a lift before the door shuts. The air is overpowered by oppressive perfume, snaking up noses, strangling each passenger; a silent oppressor. Twentieth storey, you've reached. X marks the spot. Not quite. Suite 2005. Ten more shaky steps to that man.

Knock. A resounding, anxious knock. The door swings open and you dash into his arms. _Hikaru!_

He is instantly rewarded by long rebonded ebony hair bouncing into his vision. He pulls you to him immediately; the grip is strong and wanting unlike your husband's fragile hold. Your lips meet. Lips straining with need, attention, the monthly dividend of pleasure. His mouth moves lower and you feel the cool air attacking your skin as he pushes the full skirt of your pastel colour sundress up. It is a Versace number in peach hues. The Suoh granny warbles that socialites should be dressed richly in classic colours, not those cheap-looking harlot like jeans and tops in vibrant cosmic colours. You don't want to cross her path. You comply.

There is a wanting. Or to put it more precisely at the turn of events, there are too much wanting, needing. The familiar feeling you is mellow, unyielding and compelling. A feeling darting between fork-tongued guilt and excitement. Why there are thieves who steal not for money, you can comprehend the physiology. You smell of the luscious DKNY cream of ginger and white peach that the other man presented to you in a gift box together with the flirty Vera Wang cocktail dress which ended with an attached vanilla pencil skirt. That dress is in the back of the walk-on wardrobe smelling of the rich scent of another night's love-making.

Underneath the outfit is a matching set of lacy black lingerie. Your lover snatches it off so fast; momentary disappointment depreciates your flaming desire for him by a little. His fingers are exploring your vanilla waist, occasionally dipping dangerously close to the spot where you are growing wet. You want him hard between your thighs accompanying you to the place like heaven where syrup and honey foster down lanes endlessly. You hanker for him pushing into you, hurting you, driving up the hollow walls testing your boundaries, limitations and endurance, then making you come.

You tug his boxers down and smile- he is ready for you.

All the time you are under him, shaking, head thrown back in demanding passion, you are mulling hard. Then dismissing the guilt callously. Whatever, you think. You know you shouldn't do this, but every time you are with the other man your heart beats in joy and your fingers cannot keep off him. You demand for his arms to be around you all the time- a false sense of desired security, and literally cry when your two part ways. A mild sense of intoxication sweeps over a you who is delirious with ravishing solace.

Then, it is over. Hurled down from the peak.

An aftermath of hickeys, croissant shaped imprints tattooed bodies, an array of creases embossing the bed sheet- dire evidence of crazy love- you and your body are satisfied.

The suite is silent except for his voice, the air-conditioning humming and you going "Mmm hmm..". Your fingers draw circles on his chest while he tells you about the accomplished job he is so proud of. He drones on about his latest fashion show in the States, the Mandarin Oriental- a glitzy tower or vertical mall, the snake-skin lined grand piano, the red roses that spelt out his name and the spoilt size-zero models with coral lipsticks strutting around in the shearling-lined outfits he designed. He laments that among the star-studded crowd women from actresses from the West whom Japanese are almost madly obsessed with naming Meryl steep to Paris Hilton was present. Jealousy is a worm. It wriggles uncertainty and squirms unease in you. Desperately trying to banish it, you pout. Like a routine, he ends with '_But I only have my eyes on you'_. Routines are divided equally between your husband and the other man.

The stars glimmer off the mini chandelier and sparkle lust in his eyes. And the eyes turn tender like a lamb. Inside the pupils are mirrors of the future, one that will not involve both of you soon. But you can see that the other man wants you as much you thirst for him. Although this meeting is as pointless as a teenage love affair, he is the bread you feed on for survival.

The other man runs a hand through the mane of auburn hair and you shift yourself so that your contours match his and kiss him for the umpteenth time. He is so good-looking. Angular jaw line, the sharp cheekbones of a Japanese male pop idol, 'M' curvy lips so soft and hot at the same time and body taut from physical workout. A recent gossip magazine once listed him as number five under the category: Japan's most sexiest bachelor. Girls flock to him aplenty and sometimes it makes you derangedly jealous. Most of the time.

"I love you, Hikaru." You breathe, hoping that he would not seek out the plead in your voice, licking him like a cat.

Trailing fingers explore your back, stroke your thighs. His touch is like hot steel.

"I love fucking you." None of the host club boys have ever said that word or any word like that way back in high school. Vulgarities like that were considered crude, not to be left from a mouth once born with a silver spoon. Time and fame has enriched his vocabulary.

_Wrong answer_, you sigh. Nevertheless, in return you clamour over him, grip onto his shoulders, steady yourself and take the lead to do what is required for me.

"Ride me" he says.

During your frequent rendezvous, he enjoys lying down motionless and being pleasured. You make him come and he makes you come, that's how he sees love-making as from one of his jarring aspects. Another physical pleasure he engages in life, far from prying eyes of the media and public is threesomes. Two ladies servicing. This man has many other dirty habits, fan girls are unaware of. He confides in you when he is surly from alcohol and you lend him a listening body. His life is not perfect, but you love him. More than Mr money-bags Hubby, one foot into the grave, half-dead on the bed at home.

The blood that spurts life in baby lying in the lacy crib back in the Suou residence, probably wailing and making a hussy fuss by now, does not have a single trace of Suou essence. No one, except you and the black bunny, in whom you have a penchant to confide in, who hides behind the garden shed, knows that of course.

_****_

How beautiful it is  
It is  
How wonderful to be  
Set free


	3. Chapter 3

**Platonic Love**

**Chapter 3**

Back in the streets, you are getting ready to leave for home. A call diverts your attention. The flashing screen shows thirty five missed calls.

_Haruhi, where are you?_ Your mother-in-law is weeping harder this time; you can almost see the rivers of tears smarting her crinkled soft face, amidst a dark background behind your closed eyelids. You imagine her shoulders heaving in jerks, each heave more forceful than the previous one.

The orchestra the traffic is conducting is hindering your hearing. Cars speed by, leaving trails of power-fuelled groans. Trams 'tink-a-link' the walkway, the alighting bells whispering soft hymns in response to passing bits of music blasted from nearby lolita shops.

_Tama- he- Tamaki just passed away.._

Streetlights are shooting comets into the Tokyo sky. You look up expecting to glimpse spaceships landing. Surely he is much stronger than that, no?

These words repeat in your mind. Your phone clatters to the ground, the screen breaks and small gears spill out like entrails from a sow during harvest; an enraged pursing meteor has collided with fragile china.

_Tamaki just passed away._

_Tamaki just passed away._

_Tamaki just passed away…_

Soon, it all dawns down.

You run. Fast, abandoning those horrid killer shoes, into vast nothingness as far as you can see. The passer-bys and streetwalkers your eye chooses not to notice. Your body pummels off many others but you don't feel a thing.

_**Can hear this soul?  
It's crying  
My soul is crying  
Calling out to You  
Will You come and wash over me  
Like only You can do  
**_

Bitter taste of after-sex wine lingers in your mouth. The honeyed tang of the other man plays on your tongue; and his touches burns your body. You want to throw it all out, retch forth the accumulated unease slicing your soul and hurting your insides and retrieve the lost love you've distanced yourself from that genuine husband of your.

You run into the path of a bus. Tires screech, shrill, warily, expressing a funeral song for the deceased one. A double-decker stops a centimetre away from your nose. Then, your eye catches an advertisement on a bus- it is clearly a photoshopped image of your husband in the pink of health with his megawatt smile, before his god-forsaken illness. People don't normally notice busses, unless you are about to me hit by one. The bus glows eerily and seemingly, like a faraway bazaar. From the image your husband conveys the cliché catch phrase to audiences; _Eat Nissin Noodles and you will be as hot as me_. You remember the time he took it- it was two years ago when he was twenty five. He was tanned and lean, with a six pack that many adolescents' males would kill to have. Just like a model. Advertising instant noodles was a dream he held since high school.

Your husband had many dreams and wishes. He would always share them with you over usual gourmet salads with a dash of premium olive oil. In the deepened dusk, you pass by a lamprey eel shop and remember how your husband showed a liking for skewered livers. Through the leaden shroud of fatigue, you recall that night on the peak of Mount Fuji- the time he proposed to you surrounded by the world's supply of dancing fairy lights. It was daytime under a sky of dusk. Done with reminiscing, you realize something. That he won't be there to hold your hand and nuzzle your cheeks when you lay in bed, dreadened with fever or when you startle from a nightmare the left of the bed will be empty. High school events are distant memories and the future must be faced with no regrets.

Alas now. The sobbing chokes you've always held back, now you release them gratifyingly.

The field of vision is narrowed and blurred. You dodge vehicles hogging the roads and throngs of people equally, and get through that horrible stretch with unbelievable grace. The street is a human gridlock. Influx of people brushes your heaving shoulders, never stopping to enquire the source of your tears. The city never dies. Your legs keep moving forward and you gravitate towards a bus stop.

_Go,_ you say to no one in particular. _Why did you have to go?_

And you keep sprinting on, till you reach a meadow and let darkness wash over you.

_**Can You feel this heart?  
It's beating  
Like a drum it's beating  
It's calling out to You  
Will You come and rain on this desert heart  
Like only You can do  
Can hear this soul?  
It's crying  
My soul is crying  
Calling out to You  
Will You come and wash over me  
Like only You can do  
**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Platonic Love**

**Chapter 4**

Three months later at home rocking in a swing with the son bouncing with glee on your lap, the maid calls for you. Urgent, she says in a Philippino accelerated accent. She has discovered a letter addressed to you in the walk-in wardrobe your husband and you share. In a pillow case on the study, you find an envelope titled "Haru", the ink smudged to a network of branching veins and a large spot is flurry from a previous contact with some sort of liquid. In a rush, you rip off the wax seal and scan the neat cursive- the letter is written in the same exaggerated poetic style he adopted to feed previous female customers, way back in high school with honeyed words.

_Haruhi, my dearest wife._

_By the time you read this, I would be flying on a straight path to eternity, somewhere, to a place up there no human has been to. Do not cry for me; do not weep in pity for me. Life's a full circle and to close the curve, life must end._

_Since we were brought together by fate via the broken antique years ago, I have been madly in love with you. My undying passion is satisfied with you being by my side all these while. When I wake up to another day, my heart beams to see the sun cast radiance on you in the morning. During work, my mind wanders to thoughts of you and I know I am the luckiest man alive to have wed you. My love for you is inexpressible; I know you will understand a love like these. I want absolute happiness for you. As such, the remaining mettle spurred in me deters and dwindles when I give you freedom._

_I sincerely wish you and Hikaru blessings for the near future. Since you have accepted my love, you have had the liberty to do anything you please or find joy in. As a husband, I have once pledged to take care of you for life. However I have to break that oath. My deteriorating health worried you, made you anxious and I could not fulfil my duty as a spouse, as a man to satisfy you physically. Additionally, I busied myself with work, abandon you and heaped presents onto you in apology. I ought to be ashamed of myself, yet I continued my workaholic ways with the Suoh Empire a rock on my shoulders._

_I knew that you didn't love me, yet I somewhat forced you into a marriage proposal I couldn't determine if the terms and conditions will be satisfied. I knew that you love another man, but I couldn't stomach it. During the four years of marriage, I am thankful of him taking care of you, giving you the love I couldn't give and making you smile. The handsome son snug in the crib, I hope that his real father will love him as much as he adores you._

_Lastly, I thank you for all the times we spent together and how you shone like a sun in the bleakness I reside in._

_I love you too much, Haruhi._

Tremble, you tremble so much as if earthquakes celebrated a party in the Suou mansion. A resonant ringing in your head devastates you. So he had known all along?

Since his death, you have been uncovering missing bits of the jigsaw puzzle. To discover you miss him, your husband. At night, you hug his pillow, inhale him over again, nutrients for your soul. You rummage through his unwashed clothes and bite the fibre, tasting him all over. You feel it strengthening you, energizing your despondent actions. The melancholy lingers on anyhow. A man full of vitality could be afflicted by debilitated grief. The man you keep your love for is actually him, not the one with red hair and many girls. A locket in your heart opens and all the real hurt pours out. Overflowing the barren fields of confusion. How could you have fallen into the pit of guile where mirrors of your desires come out, distorted and oppositely inaccurate?

The ring lays on the reading table, amongst lazily scattered miscellaneous items. You pick it up, feel the hardness of the red ootoro glistering in the slanting sun rays and see your reflection on the shiny plastic glaze. He gave it to you at the temple fair but you lost it during the struggle while men from a rival company kidnapped you, but he found it lonely on the dirt and sensed danger in your path. You bring the ring, the only related connection between you and him, up to the V of your quivering lips and smile.

Pain diminishes a little while you keep smiling, fresh tears prickling the back of your eyes and you let them escape freely.

_Tamaki, my husband, I am so sorry._

_**Will You be...My freedom  
Will You be...My freedom  
Will You be...My freedom  
You Are... My freedom**_

A/N: Hope you like this story! Sorry if I have offended anyone by making Hikaru as a bastard jerk. Read on for the last chpt!


	5. Chapter 5

**Platonic Love**

**Chapter 5**

The atmosphere in the unsteady lift twenty-five storey of a condo grows thicker, acrid. The locket quivers against your pale chest. Hope burn out like withered ashes.

The door opens. You exit the claustrophobic metal box and walk ahead; eyes fixed on the end of the corridor where behind the concrete and metal bars is a field of azure.

Soon you are walking on air.


End file.
